


abyss55199794

by technoapologist



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, But only a little comfort, Dissociation, Dubiously Canon, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implications of csa, Insomnia, Mental Breakdown, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sad Wilbur Soot, Song Lyrics, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Wilbur Soot-centric, based in problem child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29282556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technoapologist/pseuds/technoapologist
Summary: i was a puncture wound in your perfect worldi was everything that ever caused you hurt-No matter how much time passes, Wilbur Soot is still afraid.-Lyrics are taken from abyss55199794 by Ada Rook, which the fanfic is named after.Wilbur is based on the version of him in Problem Child by Mental-Kitten :) i am head mod in their serverContent warnings include dissociation, general ptsd & panic, and heavy implications of & references to CSA
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, techno is only there for like a second
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	abyss55199794

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Problem Child](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27495139) by [Mental_Kitten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mental_Kitten/pseuds/Mental_Kitten). 



> Join the Problem Child discord server here! I am mod Floris  
> https://discord.gg/8xC4jY6Ntc
> 
> All characters depicted are fictional renditions of the characters in the Dream Smp. Nobody mentioned is a real person, and no events mentioned are based on real life events.
> 
> All mentions of love (towards present characters, not flashbacks) in this story are strictly platonic/familial

_(i was a rotten, contagious thing, leaching out your life.  
necrotic, blackened, decaying, drowned out by your kindness.) _

The act of self loathing was a game that continuously proved itself to be riskier than Wilbur had previously imagined.

...Well, calling it a _game_ was giving it more credit than it was worth, he had to remind himself. To title it as a game gave implications of countless other details, ranging from emotions to logic, most of which needed a wild stretch of the imagination to fit the current state that he was. 

A game, one could note, was a lyrical oxymoron to his state of being on some February the fourteenth, his back pressed against cold wooden flooring that seemed to target every ridge in his spine. His eyes lurked somewhere between open and closed, gazing into the static abyss provided by the darkness of his bedroom. The house was in a rare state of complete silence, more likely than not caused by the darkness beyond it’s windows, obscuring even the first trees of the boundless forest he had grown so used to ignoring - one which the house’s new occupant seemed more than content to explore without any warning at all. 

Then again, maybe there was a warning. It was _his fault,_ wasn’t it? Or was that another trick of his mind, trying to lure him back into the quarantine behind his mind, that space so intent on bringing back deafening interruptions of tv-static and tuning his thoughts into yet another dead-channel, forcing him to wander through the blurry black-white shades he had brought upon himself in some hopeless cry to survive, _just survive,_ no matter what he would have to throw away. Pondering it, he felt his eyelids doubling over, dragging him into a state of blissful-ignorance-accompanied-REM. 

As his thoughts had grown accustomed, he forced himself back awake.

He refocused his eyes onto the static above him, mindlessly grabbing hold of the remote-controller to his strip-lights and pushing the power button. The blurry specks of his ceiling vanished instantaneously as a momentarily blinding white took their place. This time, he closed his eyes fully, reflexively pulling the backside of his right hand over his eyes. 

He removed it slowly, blinking harshly to force his eyes into processing the change in brightness, absentmindedly reaching his fingers into the air above him. With a final blink, he focused onto the pale flesh stretched over his hollow bones. Regardless of the lightness of it’s covering, his lips pursed with mild disdain. 

Of course they looked normal. They’re hands, he reminded himself, squinting at the wrinkles of his knuckles. Still, he felt rotted inside. Disgust echoed through his empty skull, pointing fingers towards the festering malady that lurked within his veins, and at the rancidity of the muscle that accompanied them. Sick, sick, sick. He was sick. The world forced him into an early decay, pushing and pulling at the lesions trapped within. It was a disease that wouldn’t let itself be cured, or even so much as detected. Even from childhood, they infected him, and now his thoughts traced back to pain in each and every direction. And fuck, it hurt.

He could try to ignore it. He could force back any decay and sprint forwards to who he had to become, and he could laugh, and smile, and he could pretend to be in love or to be good or to be happy and god please just let them believe him let them turn away so he doesn't get hurt again he cant handle getting hurt he can't do it their hands their hands their hands their h

He notices himself slipping, and drops his hand back down to his chest, grabbing lightly onto the fabric of his sweater. It’s still there. He could pull himself out, as he had to again and again, but what was the point - he always came back here - they werealways watching him, and as much as he mocked formalities, he wasn’t worthy of speaking with the others and they hurt him they hurt him so bad please just make it okay make it better listen to him love him but no look away but don't leave but

He started to count each and every blue item in his room, focusing in on that. Blue was a calm color. He was capable of being calm, of being okay, bujt stopi t stop it sotp stpopp i cant hagdndle it keave mea klolenb i fididnt ask for this i dIDFNT ASK FOR THIS I DONT WANT THIS DONT TOUCGH ME AGAIN tDONJTMTPUCH ME STOP IT STIP UIT STPOP

_(i was a sickness that couldn't die though i needed to.  
immortal, hollow abyss of festering malady.)_

It was seven thirty in the morning, and Wilbur was still bathing in his own dirt, long since choking on tears rather than the silence. His fingernails dug into the skin of his arms, wrapped around his chest and dripped with tears that nearly hurt to shed. His back was pressed to the frame of his bed, jagged segments of bone pressed against wood once more. 

_you shouldn’t love me_

By now, he had begun to hear noises from outside his door, each of which sent him into a momentary panic. He wasn’t there anymore, he reminded himself. He was safe. No one was going to hurt him. The words felt sterile. 

_you shouldn't love me_

His body shook with every sob, and god, it hurt. Everything hurt. He reminded himself that he was okay. He was happy now, and everything that hurt was far back. He reminded himself of the locks on the doors and the windows, and of the protective spells beyond that. It felt sterile.

_you shouldn’t love me._

The noises outside his door were getting more frequent. He heard the occasional voice, and questioned his understanding of them. He reminded himself that he knew how to speak now. He reminded himself that he could voice his emotions if he so desired, and that he knew the words stop, and help, and no. It felt sterile. 

He questioned his reminders. He questioned their sterility. They were created, groomed, and enforced, only to help him breathe again. 

_you shouldn't love me_

His door opened slowly, and he pressed his back even harder against the wood, hugging himself as tightly as his sore muscles allowed. A figure entered, red eyes staring down at him with a dull kind of concern. 

“Wilbur,” the familiar face said lightly, keeping his voice steady for somebody else’s sake. 

Wilbur felt his body scream, each and every organ urging him to get away, to hide, to run, it's going to happen again, it's happening, he isn't safe, he was wrong, he should have known and he s

The figure at the door exaggerated a deep breath, tearing him from his thoughts. He took a shaky breath, shallow and desperate, and then another. On his third breath, he managed a steady inhale, and was cut off by his own pained laughter. The figure looked down at him warily.

It was Techno.

It was Techno, and his hair was messy.

_but here we are_


End file.
